Seeking the Lost Angel
by edana
Summary: My blatant Mary-Sue Winifred looks for a music teacher and is pointed in the direction of the Phantom. Once she finds him, his influence helps her escape from her overbearing father and finally realize her own feminine maturity for the first time.
1. La Carlotta

CHAPTER RATING: PG

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, yeah, she's a blatant Mary-Sue. Winifred's story was born from my rationalizations of my fantasies. But this is the first character I've ever created that is without a doubt me. She doesn't look like me, but her personality's defiantly me. Or parts of me, anyway. She's spaced out, she's got more conscience than what naturally occurs in a girl her age, and she constantly second guesses herself. It's wonderful. Also, like me, she's planning on becoming a classical singer, so that's not just a convenient plot device, it's actually me pouring myself into the story. Except for that first paragraph. That's a bunch of crap. I never had a fantasy like that. I'm too realistic.

* * *

She stood on a stage, looking over her vast audience. As she sang one, long, swelling note, she felt the theatre breath in as one body. The people were just one person when they heard her voice. All hate and human injustice came to an end in those short moments when her music rose and filled the air and listeners were united in the appreciation of true beauty. The audience was in the palm of her hand.

"_Winifred_," came a harsh voice.

"What?" Winifred replied, snapping out of her daydream.

Johnathan was drumming his fingers on the arm rest of the large cushioned parlor chair he sat in. "You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?" He was trying to sound annoyed, but Winifred could tell that he was just amused.

"Of course I was listening," she said defiantly, and then added timidly, "Love is patient?"

Johnathan laughed. "While that _is_ something that we all need to keep in mind, especially me during our lessons, we're actually in the _Old_ Testament at the moment."

"Oh." Winifred leaned forward and turned to Genesis.

"We're in Job," Johnathan corrected her.

Winifred sighed. "I do wish you wouldn't speak to me like that, Johnathan. Just because you're training to be a priest, it doesn't mean that you can talk down to me. You're only two years older than me, Little Johnny."

"I'm sorry," He replied genuinely. "But it's difficult not to treat you like a child when you're acting like one."

"A few daydreams do not make me a child," she argued, annoyed.

"Yes, but refusing to speak to your father about acting on them does."

Winifred was suddenly hot. "I do not refuse to speak to him about it. It's just that it is impossible. I made one mere mention of becoming an opera singer and he tells me that the only difference between an actress and a whore is that an actress performs for a larger crowd."

Johnathan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Winifred Deschanel, hold your tongue."

"Hold your own tongue, Johnathan. He can't get angry with you for allowing me to quote him."

"Yes, but such things should not come from a lady's mouth." Winifred could tell that he was struggling a little to keep a straight face.

"Yes, well," she replied moodily, "I am under the impression that nothing is meant to come from a lady's mouth."

"Ah, then you've cracked the code," Johnathan said with a sly smile.

Winifred stared at Johnathan darkly for a moment, but then laughed. "I think you need to trade in that vow of celibacy for a vow of silence." She then turned to her Bible, feeling that Johnathan would want to return to the lesson.

"Remember, my Aunt Carlotta is visiting along with my Uncle tomorrow," he said reassuringly.

Winifred perked up again. "Yes, I remember. I still cannot believe that you are related to Carlotta Guidicelli."

Johnathan winced. "Please stop saying that I'm related to her. She is only my aunt through marriage."

"I still can't believe it. She's my inspiration. I've been to hundreds of operas, but from the moment I first heard her sing, I knew that I had a chance at success."

* * *

The next day, Winifred dressed in her best everyday clothes. Her father did not know that the famous La Carlotta was staying at Johnathan's family's home. If he did, he would probably keep her from her lessons until Carlotta left.

Before Winifred even placed her foot on the front steps, she could hear a thick, angry Italian accent pouring out of the old house. She knocked, but no one came, so she knocked louder. Soon, the butler, Edward, opened the door.

"You come back here! I not finished with you!" screeched the voice in a rage, causing Winifred to flinch.

Edward rolled his eyes and said under his breath, "Miss Deschanel, on behalf of this household, I apologize for the crude intrusion on your lesson today."

He led her into the sitting room where Carlotta was sitting on a love seat with Jonathan's Uncle Dominic. Johnathan's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bello, sat on the couch across from them and Johnathan was in a chair beside the couch.

"Winifred!" Mrs. Bello greeted her brightly. "So nice to see you!"

"There you are!" shouted Carlotta, standing to face Edward. She wore an almost-formal dress with bejeweled buttons and abundant lace. In her hands she held a tiny, white poodle wearing a rhinestone collar and decked in ribbons. She had fiery red hair and a broad face that would look dignified if it were not for the wild expression that it wore. "I ask you one simple thing and you not do it. I ask you to bring me food for my doggie and what do you get?"

Edward stared at her dully. "Dog food," he replied flatly.

"Dog food!" Carlotta cried, throwing a hand in the air, almost dropping the poodle. "My doggie does not eat dog food! Why you think I bring veal cutlet?"

Edward looked at the woman for a moment, then said calmly, "I am deeply sorry, Madame. It won't happen again."

Carlotta sneered. "It better not."

Mr. Bello stood suddenly and said, "Dominic, I want to show you that new horse I bought last month. She's a real beauty."

"Of course," Johnathan's uncle replied, standing.

"I'll help you," Mrs. Bello said quickly- almost frantically- and followed the two men out of the house. "So nice to see you again, Winifred," she said cheerily as she closed the back doors behind her.

Johnathan stood and guided Winifred over to where Carlotta sat. "Aunt Carlotta, this is Winifred Deschanel. She's a big fan of yours." Winifred could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Really?" Carlotta said and smiled smugly. "How do you do?"

"Well," Johnathan sighed, "I think I'll go check in on that horse as well. See you in a bit, ladies."

Winifred glared at Johnathan's back as he walked out the door.

"Come, come," Carlotta said as she glided over to the sofa. "Sit, innamorata." She put her dog on her lap as she reclined.

Winifred nervously sat at the opposite end of the couch.

"You are a fan?" Carlotta said, smiling.

"Y-yes," Winifred said. "I remember when I was younger and saw you in _What May Cease to Be_ in the old theatre before it burned down. It was remarkable." Yes, the _show_ was remarkable, but it could have done without Carlotta. Even at fourteenWinifredhad beenable to see that.

Carlotta smiled again and touched a hand to her hair delicately. "Thank you. We just get back from a production in England. Horrible country. Never go there. Before this show I was retired from singing for about two years."

"Why?"

"Oh." Carlotta looked away, suddenly solemn- the first sincerity Winifred had seen in her yet. "You remember the fire?" she asked as she pulled a handkerchief from her purse.

"Yes," Winifred replied quietly. She was referring to the infamous destruction of the Opera Populare.

Carlotta dabbed her eyes. "Mi amor- my greatest love- die in the fire. I couldn't bring myself to perform until I meet my tesoro Dominic. He give me the strength to pursue my art again. And so rich!"

Richard entered with a plate of veal cutlet.

"Ah, put it down there." Carlotta pointed at the floor and Richard obeyed. The poodle jumped from her lap and began to eat.

As Richard exited, Winifred decided it was time to get the information she had come for. "How did you become what you are today?" That was dumb. It sounded as though she was interviewing her for a feature in the newspaper.

Carlotta didn't seem to mind. "I love music since I was very young, and entertainment runs in my family. My father was a composer and my mother was a dancer. God-given talent and a good voice teacher is how I become successful."

Winifred bit her lip. A teacher. "What if...I wanted to take singing lessons. Who would be a good teacher for me to go to?"

Carlotta thought for a moment. "Oh, I know several nearby. DeJenior, Madame Correra, Limbardon...all of these are very expensive, though. You have to have the means."

"I don't have any money."

Carlotta looked at Winifred like she was insane. "No money? What you mean, no money?"

"I'm not poor or anything like that." Then Winifred dropped her voice to a whisper. "It's just...my father doesn't want me to sing. He won't be willing to pay. Even if I do begin lessons, I'll have to do it in secret."

Carlotta's expression turned mischievous. "Ah, I see."

"Do you...know of anyone who would, you know, teach me for free? Or at least for very little money?"

Carlotta snorted. "No one worth having," she said simply. But then she furrowed her brow. "Except...maybe the Phantom."

Winifred laughed. "The Phantom? Who is that?"

Carlotta's lips were now thin and her face was red. "The filthy bastardo that killed mio amore." She turned her head and spat at the air.

Winifred watched Carlotta for a moment, and then it hit her. "The Phantom of the Opera?"

"Sí, sí, the Phantom."

Winifred was dumbfounded. She'd heard of the stories of the Phantom of the Opera, but she never thought of them as true or false- only as rumors she had heard. Now that she was faced with the idea of actually going out to seek him, she was forced to decide on the validity of everything that she had heard.

Winifred cleared her throat. "So, you're telling me that the Phantom of the Opera is real?"

"Real? Of course he real! I saw him with my own two eyes!"

"And...he can teach me to sing?"

"Yes. I hear that he very good teacher. He thought Christine Daae, and now she almost as good as me." She touched her fingers to her hair.

"He taught Christine Daae to sing?" Winifred said in amazement. Miss Daae was known as one of the most talented sopranos in Europe. "How do I find him?"

"That a good question. I suppose the only person who would know that is Miss Daae. Or, her name de Chagny now, I guess. I can give you their address if you want it. I went to the premier party for _Yolmora_ there last year."

"That would be wonderful."


	2. The Countess de Changy

CHAPTER RATING: PG

* * *

When she had the address, Winifred told Johnathan that she would be missing the day's lesson and borrowed a horse, buggy and driver. Normally, Winifred would wait to do something so important, but she was so excited that she could hardly contain herself. It took a mere half hour to reach the de Chagny home. It was a large, elegant place, but not massive. When Winifred was escorted inside, she got the impression from the interior that the owners probably had the world at their disposal but were prudent in their usage of it. She was told to wait in a cozy sitting room while the Countess de Chagny was summoned.

Then she entered. She was absolutely beautiful. Barely older than Winifred, Miss Daae seemed to be the essence of goodness, elegance and light. Or maybe Winifred was just a little star-struck.

Winifred stood in greeting. "Miss- Countess de Chagny. It's an honor to meet you."

Miss Daae smiled. "I could say the same, had the maid not failed to tell me your name."

"Winifred Deschanel," she said, and curtsied nervously.

Miss Daae laughed- almost giggled, flattered. "No need for formalities, Miss Deschanel. Have a seat."

As the two sat down, a maid peeked in and said, "Madame, would you like me to take Angelo off your hands now?"

It wasn't until then that Winifred noticed a toddler holding Miss Daae's hand.

"Yes, thank you," Miss Daae replied, kissed her child, and said, "Go to Henrietta."

The little boy then stumbled his way over to the maid and Winifred and Miss Daae were left alone.

"Now," Miss Daae sighed, "do you have some business you wish to speak with me about?"

"No. Um, I suppose." Winifred braced herself for the stupidity that was about to come from her mouth. "I was...told you could help me in finding the Phantom of the Opera."

Miss Daae visibly tensed. "Who are you?" she asked in a low tone, narrowing her eyes.

Winifred was suddenly frightened. "What do you mean?"

"Are you from the paper? It was over three years ago! Don't you people know how to let things lie?" She was standing now, either furious or panicked.

"No!" Winifred said. "I mean, I'm not from the paper. I was told that the Phantom could..." she braced herself again for her stupidity, "...give me singing lessons."

Miss Daae relaxed, but now looked confused. "Who told you this?"

"Carlotta...Bello. She's a friend of a friend."

"La Carlotta?" Miss Daae rolled her eyes, but then looked ashamed. "I apologize. That was uncalled for. But...why have you decided that you must have lessons from the Phantom?"

"Because-" Winifred dropped her voice because, no matter where she was, she felt as though her father could hear this conversation- "I'm doing this without my father's permission. I don't have any money to pay a normal teacher."

"Oh. But I still-"

"Please, please, please," Winifred begged. "I'll do anything so that I can sing. I'll die if I'm not in the opera. Please."

"But you don't understand." Miss Daae's eyes were wide with panic. "He's- He might be dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Yes." Miss Daae looked down at her hands. "He- while he was my teacher, he fell in love with me. I loved him too, I just..." she gave a shuddering sigh, "I could never love him that way. When Raoul- the Viscount- proposed to me, the Phantom went absolutely mad with jealousy."

"He burned down the theatre," Winifred said, connecting Miss Daae's words with Carlotta's.

"Yes, among other things. He also nearly killed Raoul, but let us free at the last moment."

"So...he's not dangerous anymore."

Miss Daae looked at Winifred again. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since the theatre was burned down."

"What?" Now Winifred was angry. "So you don't know where he is?"

"I think I do. But I'm not sure. I can tell you who does know, though. And she'll also be a better judge of whether you should see him than I am."

"Who?" Winifred asked eagerly.

"Madame Giry. She lives in the dorms of the Parnell Operahouse. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes. Madame Giry, was it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you so very much, Madame. You won't regret telling me this."

The two stood and Miss Daae took Winifred's hand and squeezed it. "Just remember. He could be very dangerous. I've given you fair waning. It is off my head."

"Thank you." In her excitement, Winifred kissed Miss Daae's hand in gratitude. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye."


	3. Madame Giry

CHAPTER RATING: G

DISCLAIMER: The lyrics in this chapter are from Georges Bizet's _Carmen._ They're the English translation of "L'amour est un oiseau rebelled."

* * *

The next day, Winifred skipped her lessons with Johnathan again so she could find Madame Giry. Once at the operahouse, she found Madame Giry directing some ballerinas dressed as cherubim to dance to piano played by a woman so old she looked as though she might expire at any given moment. Winifred was not going to disturb the director, but when she saw Winifred watching, Madame Giry approached.

"Did you want something?" Madame Giry asked Winifred.

"Yes...um," Winifred began, "I was told you-"

"I'm sorry, you need to speak up, darling. The piano."

"I was told you knew where to find the Phantom of the Opera."

Madame Giry looked at her for a few moments with an unreadable expression on her face, then turned to the ballerinas and said, "Meg, could you take over for a moment?"

The blonde ballerina in the centre of the dancing took her place in front of the other girls.

"Come," Madame Giry said, and led Winifred into another, smaller room and closed the door. She then took a seat on a piano bench that sat in front of an old grand piano and said, "Why do you wish to see the Phantom?"

Winifred was a little alarmed by her directness. "I want to learn to sing," she explained for the third time, "and I have no money."

"Sing for me," Madame Giry commanded, "and we'll see if you are worthy of the Phantom."

"Sing?"

"Yes. Sing."

Winifred wasn't really prepared for a performance. "What?"

"Anything. Do you know 'My Lovely Dante'?"

"Not all of it," she replied. "But how about," she opened her mouth to sing, but nothing came out.

"Go on," Madame Giry said with a smile.

Winifred cleared her throat, mainly out of nervousness. "Alright...

"The bird you caught by surprise-"

She stopped, got a reassuring nod from Madame Giry, and continued.

"Beats its wing, and off it flies.  
Love ignores you, you wait and mope,  
Then there it is-when you give up hope.  
Love's all around you. Quick, quick!  
You have no man, or you have your pick.  
Think you've found love?  
It turns you down cold.  
Think you've escaped it?  
It has you in its hold."

When Winifred finished, Madame Giry stood and applauded, a satisfied smirk on her face, and Winifred couldn't help but smile. "Very good," she said. "And you haven't had lessons before?"

"Never," Winifred replied.

"Oh, I think the Angel of Music would love an untainted student."

"Who?" What had happened to the Phantom of the Opera?

"Oh, that is what Christine calls him. I assume you know that she is his former pupil, since you came looking for him."

"Yes." Winifred gave a little laugh. "'Angel' is a little more pleasant than 'Phantom.'"

"Yes, it is. You may want to keep 'Angel' in mind when you see him. It might clam your fears."

"I'm not afraid," Winifred said stubbornly. "You're telling me how to find him?" she added hopefully.

"Yes. I think you've proven yourself worthy. And keep in mind, you will be frightened. Don't walk into the Phantom's lair with your eyes shut, child."

"I'll keep my guard up," Winifred replied.

"Do not misunderstand me, though. I don't believe he is dangerous, or I wouldn't be sending you to him. He's just an...intimidating figure."

Winifred was getting anxious. "How do I find him?"

"He lives where he has always lived: beneath the old demolished operahouse. He is forced to leave on occasion, but he only travels at night in a long, hooded cloak. The fastest entrance to his domain is through Christine's old dressing room mirror. Actually, behind it. It slides open. You can get to her room by going through the third door on the right of the first floor of the backstage dorm hallway. You mean no harm to the Phantom, so he will allow you to enter his domain, but he may not reveal himself to you. He's lived a quiet life since the accident."

"Accident?" Winifred repeated her.

"Well, you know what I mean." Madame Giry gestured to the doorway. "Now, you must excuse me, but I have to get back to my girls."

Winifred, happy beyond all reason, went immediately to Johnathan's house to inform him of the good news.

"Is it alright if I skip tomorrow's lesson to see my teacher?" she asked him hopefully.

"That's alright with me," he replied. "You never pay attention anyway. In fact, I've an idea. Why don't you just skip all my lessons to go to lessons with this instructor?" Winifred hadn't told him from whom she was to be taking lessons. She wasn't sure if he would believe her.

"Stop making jokes, Johnathan," she said.

"No, I'm serious, Winifred. It's the only chance you'll have so you're father won't be suspicious. I know I used to be opposed to the idea of you becoming a performer, but now I see that you're actually serious about it."

Winifred hugged Johnathan warmly. "Thank you so much." She kissed him on the cheek. "I was actually going to ask you if I could skip our lessons, but I thought you would be angry."

Johnathan laughed. "Yes, I probably would have. But since I'm the one who suggested it, it's alright." He took her hands in his. "Winifred, you do have a beautiful voice. I truly believe that this is what God wants for you."


	4. The Opera Populare

CHAPTER RATING: PG

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Although the character's based on me, I don't have an overbearing father. Winifred's dad is an exaggeration of my friend's parents. Mrs. Bello- and Mr. Bello, although we don't really see much of him in the story- is that friend's parent that everyone should know. She's just kind of cool and understanding and will cover for you when you need it. You're willing to call her "friend" even though, officially, she's just your friend's mom. I've got a couple of "friends" like that.

* * *

"What are you doing?" asked Winifred's father as she neared the door to leave.

"Going for my lessons," she replied, "like every day."

"You look nice," her father told her, approaching her threateningly.

Winifred nervously touched one of her blonde locks of hair, which she now regretted curling. "Thank you," she said, avoiding his eyes.

"Too nice to just be going to lessons with Johnathan." He looked down his nose at her accusingly. Would he ever stop watching her?

"I just felt like looking nice today," Winifred lied. "Don't worry, father. Johnathan's a priest, remember?"

Her father looked sternly at her, she knew, for assuming that his thoughts were the worst, however correct those assumptions may have been. "Why do you have a bag?" he asked.

"Um, I thought I would show Madame Bello my new dress- the one grandmother gave me." Winifred was glad she'd thought things over ahead of time.

"Why would Madame Bello want to see your dress?" her father asked suspiciously.

_Typical._ She sighed, frustrated. "Father, you do not understand women."

At this, he smiled- the closest he ever got to a laugh. "Alright, you may go."

"Goodbye."

When Winifred closed the door behind her, she released the mental breath she'd been holding, and started down the street towards Johnathan's house. She hated lying, and wasn't very talented at it either. But if her father wasn't so restrictive, she wouldn't have to lie. He forced her to lie. There wasn't any way around it. Well, that's what Winifred told herself until she believed it to be true.

When she reached Johnathan's house, Madame Bello helped Winifred get dressed. In the carpet bag that she brought with her was a light blue semiformal dress and some of Winifred's mother's old jewelry.

As Madame Bello placed a silver chain with a tiny, simple cross around Winifred's neck, the older woman asked, "However did you find an instructor that would teach you for no cost?"

"Carlotta told me of some wonderful connections."

"Why all the fuss, though?" Madame Bello asked curiously. "You never worried so much about how you look for Johnathan." She giggled.

"I want to make a good impression, that's all," Winifred replied. "Also, I want him to know that I appreciate his generosity."

Madame Bello sighed. "If your mother was alive, you would never have this much trouble with your father- having to tiptoe around him and such." Then she laughed. "Marie had him wrapped around her little finger. You would have had your singing lessons at the mere mention of the interest."

Winifred looked at her mother's ring on her own hand. "Yes, well, it's all wishful thinking, though, isn't it?"

There was a pause, then Madame Bello said, "Winifred..."

"I'm fine," Winifred reassured her, looking up and smiling. "But I need to be going. Is the carriage ready?"

"Yes. Do you know how long you are going to be? So the driver knows."

"No, but don't worry about it. I have money for a cab to bring me back."

"Are you planning on taking a cab every day?" Madame Bello asked, concerned.

"No, but I'll think of something."

Once Winifred said goodbye to the Bellos, her carriage started off for the old operahouse. It had been a while since Winifred had seen the place, and when the carriage came upon it, she hardly recognized it. It wasn't burned down exactly, but charred and run-down. When she entered themassive building, she saw that the inside was almost completely blackened. Winifred, suddenly regretting having dressed herself in pastels, glanced around to see if the theatre was as deserted as it appeared and then gathered up her skirts so high that her legs were exposed. She then made her way down the isle littered with planks of wood and covered in old ash. Finally to the stage, she stepped lightly backstage and maneuvered her way through the rubble to the doorways on the back wall. When she finally reached what she believed to be Christine's old dressing room, almost no light shown through the holes in the battered wall outside the room. Winifred found a lamp on the vanity and, after several minutes of fumbling around in search for matches, she found some in a drawer of the vanity. Once the room was lit, Winifred gasped. Nothing in this room had been touched by the fire. Everything was intact, as if some heavenly or magical force had protected it. Then Winifred saw the mirror, and her heart jumped. This was it. But when she slid it back, all that lay beyond was a stone hallway. Strange, yes, but not what she was looking for. She followed the hallway to some steps that were lit with a few candles- a very few candles. There were actually enough candles there to light a cathedral, but so few were lit that Winifred could barely see where she was going. She sighed with relief when she reached the bottom safely, but felt her heart drop when her eyes fell upon what seemed to be a narrow lake. Then she saw a boat tied to the stone shore and a pole leaning against the wall. Who puts a lake under a theatre? she thought, annoyed. But, despite the ridiculousness of it all, she climbed into the boat. More stone, more darkness, more candles, only half of which were lit and nearly all melted to stubs, as if someone had stopped caring about them a long time ago. She pushed and pushed on the pole until she thought her arms would give out, then she finally came upon a gate. Before she could stop herself, the boat rammed into the gate and she fell suddenly forward, landing on her knees in the boat. When she got up, the front of her dress was covered in brown mildew. She grunted in frustration.

"Hello?" she called. "Is anyone there?"

No answer.

"Madame Giry sent me," she said.

Nothing.

Winifred sat down in the boat and took a closer look beyond the gate. Past the shore was chaos. Papers, clothing and toppled furniture were everywhere. A few mirrors lined the wall, all of which were smashed.

"Hello?" she called again. She kept having an impulse to call a name, but what name was she to call? Phantom? Yoo hoo, Phantom! She decided to just wait.

And wait.

And wait.

After a long while, it struck Winifred that several hours had probably gone by. She called out one more time and then gave up, picking up the pole and pushing off, discouraged and depressed.

It was dark by the time she returned to Johnathan's house, but her father wouldn't mind because she often would stay a long time after lessons to visit. She quickly changed back into her casual clothes. Madame Bello agreed to have the dress cleaned. Then Winifred went directly home and fell into bed. Sitting for hours on end was an exhausting activity.


	5. The Phantom of the Opera

CHAPTER RATING: PG

DISCLAIMER: The lyrics in this chapter are, of course, "Think of Me" from _The Phantom of the Opera_, written by Charles Hart. Music is by Andrew Lloyd Webber, but I'm not sure I have to tell you that because 1) you know it's by Andrew Lloyd Webber (I hope) and 2) I'm not exactly _using_ the music here, am I?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is where the story starts getting good, in my opinion. Anything previous to this is simply rationalizing everything that comes after it.

* * *

The following day, Winifred wore black- the most durable of all colors. When the driver dropped her off, she marched, stumbled and pushed her way to the gate in the water. She refused to give up. Whomever the Phantom was, he was rude, and Winifred would not stand for it. He could at least reject her properly and politely!

"Hello? Are you there?" she called again. "My name is Winifred Deschanel and I am here to take lessons from you!"

No answer.

Winifred sat down in the boat to wait, but in a more determined fashion this time. After a few minutes, she thought that maybe she would have to prove herself as she did for Madame Giry. But what song? _Carmen_ again? Maybe something that was done here. Something from when she came to see Christine Daae's debut!

She stood and cleared her throat. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and began in forced confidence.

"Think of me  
Think of me fondly when we've said goodbye  
Remember me  
Once in a while, please promise me you'll try  
When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free  
If you ever find a-"

"WHO ARE YOU?" a voice boomed so loud that Winifred couldn't tell where it was coming from. She was suddenly terribly frightened and unbearably overjoyed at the same time.

"Winifred Deschanel," she almost shouted. "I'm here to take singing lessons from the Phantom of the Opera."

She heard a low laugh that sounded as if it was coming from everywhere. "And why do you think I would give lessons to _you_?" asked the voicecondescendingly.

She opened her mouth to answer, but found that she didn't have one. Instead, she just said, "Why wouldn't you?"

He did not answer but, after a pause, the gate rose and Winifred was able to push herself to shore in triumph. As she stepped on land, a man appeared from a side room, walking towards her. He wore an old, torn shirt, black pants, and was putting on a black jacket; his hair looked neatly combed. But his most distinguishing piece of attire was a white mask that only covered half of his face. _It was the Phantom_. While he had an awesome presence about him, he was a slightly less impressive character than Winifred had previously been led to believe. His movements dragged. He seemed sad. And very tired.

He sat down at an organ which seemed to be the centre of this domain and began making notes on sheets of paper. "Who sent you?" he asked sternly without looking up.

"N-no one," Winifred replied. "I mean, Madame Giry told me where to find you, but-"

"And what persuaded her to do this?" he asked.

"She...said that she approved of my voice."

"Your voice is pretty," said the Phantom. It wasn't a compliment. "But you lack any skill whatsoever. My last pupil was practically raised in the theatre. Will you ever compare?"

Compare? To Christine Daae? Winifred had always fantasized about such things but had never thought of them as a reality. However, she knew that to be good at anything, she must believe that she is the best in the world, whether it was true or not.

"Yes," she replied firmly.

The Phantom finally looked at Winifred, a wry smile on his face. "Come here," he commanded.

Winifred obeyed. The Phantom's gaze caused her breath to shorten; his eyes were deep, dark, and piercing. She was now standing at his side.

"Sing the scales for me."

"Scales?"

"Yes, scales." When he realized that Winifred didn't really know what he was talking about, he seemed a little annoyed. "Scales! You know," and he played five ascending followed by four descending notes on the organ, then moved up so that the notes were higher, then up again, "and so on."

"Alright," Winifred said quietly. She cleared her throat.

"Try not to clear your throat," he said. "It hinders your singing more than it helps."

"Alright." She prepared herself to sing and cleared her throat again. She winced. "Sorry." And she began, "La la la la la la la la la. La la la la la la la la la. La la la la la la la la la," until she could go no higher.

"Good, good. Now do this." He played the same notes, but instead he moved down between each set.

"Alright." She cleared her throat.

The Phantom then took her hand and jabbed it with a needle.

"Ouch!" Winifred screamed. "Why did you do that?" she said, squeezing her hand.

He looked as if he was trying to stop himself from smiling. "You get one of those every time you cough."

"But that's cruel!" she objected. "And what if I catch a cold?"

"Then I suggest you learn to recuperate quickly. Now, sing." He took her hand and held it, needle poised.

He was a sadist! Why hadn't anyone told her that? But the question was, were the lessons worth it?

Yes.

She nearly cleared her throat again, but caught herself. "La la la la la la la la la. La la la la la la la la la. La la la la la la la la la," until she could go no lower.

The Phantom released her hand. "You have decent range, but you need more support. Do you exercise your voice much?"

"What does that mean?"

"Singing! Do you sing?"

"Oh. Well, I try, but ever since my father found out that I want to be in the opera, he stopped allowing me to sing as much. He's...religious."

"Ah," said the Phantom. "Which is why you came to see me."

"Yes."

"How old are you?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Nineteen," she replied.

"Nineteen. And you're still under your father's command? Have you not a husband? A fiancé?"

"No. I don't- that is to say, my father doesn't let me see many men. I believe he wants me to become a nun."

For some reason, the Phantom seemed to find this very amusing. "A nun? You poor child." He was laughing.

Normally, Winifred would be angry with someone for acting like this, but it was strange seeing the Phantom laugh. Although it was at her misfortunes, it made him seem very human.

"You must leave now," he said suddenly, standing. "Come back tomorrow and I will have more prepared for you."

"Alright," Winifred replied warily. "Um, thank you."

He did not reply, so Winifred got in the boat and pushed off.


	6. The Music of the Midday

CHAPTER RATING: PG

DISCLAIMER: Lyrics in this chapter are from _Andrew Lloyd Webber's the Phantom of the Opera_. It's called "Learn To Be Lonely" by Charles Hart, music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, but, again, I don't think I need to tell you that.

* * *

When Winifred returned the next day, the Phantom handed her some sheet music. 

"Do you know how to read music?" he asked, taking a seat in front of the organ.

"Yes, for the most part," Winifred replied. The song was called "Being Alone."

"Really? You do not know what a scale is, yet you can read music?"

"Well, it's just something I picked up. My mother used to sing with me all the time when she was alive. She would read from sheet music and I would follow along. It's not really difficult. I just need the first note."

So, over the next few hours, Winifred and the Phantom went over songs like "Being Alone," "Not Only the Wicked Die," "Endless Misery," and "Black Eternity." She had about ten new puncture wounds in her hand.

Then he handed her a song called "Learn To Be Lonely."

"Child of the wilderness  
Born into emptiness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to find your way in darkness

Who will be there for you  
Comfort and care for you  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to be your one companion

Never dreamed out in the world  
There are arms to hold you  
You've always known-"

She stopped mid-line and stared at the paper.

"You've stopped," the Phantom said flatly.

"Yes," Winifred replied, still looking at the paper.

"Why?"

"It's depressing. Where did you get all of this music?"

"I wrote it," he said simply. "Not all music has to be cheerful."

"Yes, well, not all music should make you want to go to bed and stay there for the rest of your life." She added, half-jokingly, "You must lead a very sad life to have written all of this."

"I do," he said seriously. He was looking up at Winifred unblinkingly, still holding her hand.

She suddenly realized that she was squeezing his hand tightly, and let go.

"If you have something that better suits your mood," he said, "bring it tomorrow and we'll have a look."

"Alright."

When it came time for Winifred to leave, she started towards the shore, then turned and asked, "What do I call you?"

"Excuse me?" the Phantom replied, turning to face her.

"I keep wanting to call you by name. I'd say 'Phantom,' but that really isn't a name, is it? Like I'm a girl, but you don't call me 'Girl.' I want to know your name."

The Phantom stared at her for a moment as if this question truly baffled him. Then he looked away, concentrating on something. "Erik," he said finally, decisively.

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow, Erik."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I actually wrote some original lyrics for the Phantom's depressing song, but they were so hilariously cheesy I just ended up just using "Learn To Be Lonely," even though they're not horribly depressing. I had some fun making up depressing titles, though. "Black Eternity" sounds like a death metal song, doesn't it? 

Here's the lyrics to "Not Only the Wicked Die," just for a laugh:

Hide. Be frightened.  
Nothing's there to save you.  
Panting, exhausted.  
Love will never save you.

For not only the wicked die.  
The good are damned to hell.  
Not only the wicked die.  
Purity will burn as well.

Lovely, sweet child  
Who will care for you now?  
Bleeding, wounded.  
Who will save you? How?

For not only the wicked die.  
The good are damned to hell.  
Not only the wicked die.  
Purity will burn as well.

Hate is everywhere and there's nothing to do.  
All must die and shrivel to dust.  
All must die.  
All will die.


	7. Holiness Is What I Long For

CHAPTER RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: "Surely He Hath Born Our Griefs" is by Evan Copley, taken from Isaiah 53:4. Also, I trimmed down the passages from Song of Solomon so that they just include the juiciest parts.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before, you've seen religion referred to in a negative context. Here, you'll see that Winifred is faithful as well as her father, but her father is just stuck in that legalism that was the Dark Ages of Catholicism. Winifred is spiritual in the purest since. And I think you'll enjoy my usage of the Bible here... I know I did.

* * *

Winifred and Johnathan picked through the music in the compartment hidden in the Bello's piano bench. 

"Here's a good one," said Johnathan, pulling out a little paper book. "'Sicut Cervus.'"

Winifred added the music to her bag. "Doesn't your family own any music that's not in Latin?"

"I gave you 'Kyrie.' That's Greek."

"Yes, but 'Kyrie' is the only Greek word in the entire song. The rest is Latin."

"Oh, here's one!" Johnathan cried in triumph, holding up more music. "'Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs.'"

"Finally. Alright, I think that's all I need."

When Winifred reached the passageway, the gate was open, but the Phantom- Erik- was nowhere to be seen. So she went over to the organ, sat down, retrieved her Bible from her bag and began to read Matthew 5.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.  
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.  
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.  
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

"What are you reading?" came Erik's voice from behind her. He slid beside her on the bench.

"The Sermon on the Mount," Winifred replied.

"What is that?" he asked.

She looked at him, a little surprised. "Don't you ever read the Bible?"

"Oh, no. I tried at one point, but all it seems to be is some distant God giving orders to people. Useless."

"It's not useless," Winifred replied, mildly offended. "There's poetry in this book. Look." She opened to Psalm 23 and read aloud.

"The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.  
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.  
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.  
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me-"

She stopped. The Phantom seemed unimpressed. "Alright, here. I know you'll like this." She turned to Song of Solomon.

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.  
Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee."

The Phantom slid the Bible in front of him and turned a few pages. He read,

"The joints of thy thighs are like jewels. Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies. How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights! This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples. And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine"

He slowly pushed the book back over to Winifred, and she picked up where he'd left off.

"It is wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak. I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me. Come, my beloved, let us lodge in the villages. There will I give thee my loves."

Winifred closed the Bible, realizing that she was breathing very hard. She looked up at Erik.

"I stand corrected," he said in a low voice.

Winifred suddenly realized that they were uncomfortably close, and stood quickly. "I brought some music today," she said, placing her Bible in the bag and pulling out "Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs."

Erik took it and played the first note, and Winifred began.

"Surely, surely  
He hath borne our griefs  
And carried our sorrows,  
Carried our sorrows,  
Our sorrows.

He was wounded,  
Wounded for our transgressions.  
He was bruised for our iniquities

And the chastisement  
Of our peace  
Was upon-"

"Wait," the Phantom interrupted her. "I thought the purpose of bringing your own music was so that you would not have to sing something depressing."

"This isn't depressing," Winifred said defensively. "It's about Christ giving His life for our sins."

"And you don't think that an innocentman being tortured to death for something he did not do is depressing?"

Winifred sighed, frustrated. "That's not the point of it."

"Anyway, you're ignoring the crescendos and decrescendos."

"What?"

"These markings." He pointed to what looked like little sideways triangles with no ends that were scattered over the staffs. "These mean to make your voice grow louder, these mean to become softer."

"Alright." She sang the first several lines again.

"No, no, no," he said, standing. "You have to feel the music." He came around, stood behind her, and held her close, one hand on her stomach, the other on her upper arm. Then he said with a low voice in her ear, "In a song with this many movements, you have to sing it as if they were pulsations. Move with the music."

Winifred tried to listen, but she was now finding it very hard to concentrate.

Then Erik began to sing. His voice was beautiful. Each time the music grew loud, he would pull her into him, and when it became quiet again, he slowly released her. The combination of such intimate contact and his hot breath on her face made Winifred a little lightheaded.

Then he backed off and said, "Understand?"

"Yes," she replied, voice rather rough. She cleared her throat. "Let's try another song. And that cough doesn't count. I actually needed that one."

He smiled a bit and said, "Alright," and sat back down.

When Winifred was ready to leave, she asked, "Is there another way to get here? I mean, besides the boat? I don't think my arms can take coming over any longer."

"There are other ways," the Phantom replied, "but they are secret."

"Oh, alright," she said, discouraged and maybe even a little insulted. "Goodbye."

She turned to leave, but then stopped and began searching through her bag. "Oh no! I've forgotten my cab fare!"

After she fumbled around for a moment, desperately searching for some spare money, Erik asked, "Do you have a place to keep a horse?"

Winifred stopped looking. "What do you mean?"

"There is a horse in the stables that you may use- it is the only horse there."

"Oh, thank you so much. Yes, I can keep it at a friend's house."

"You can use it every day, if you like. If paying for a cab is too much trouble."

"Yes, it is, actually. My father would start to notice that I am spending more than usual. Thank you very much."

Then the Phantom turned to his organ and began to play as Winifred got into the boat and pushed off.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE/RANDOM STORY: The Phantom's teaching methods here- or, Winifred's reaction to them, anyway- were inspired by one of my middle school experiences. One day we had a sub for English class, which, ironically, was the only time we were ever assigned work or taught anything because our current teacher was a last-minute replacement for the one who just stopped showing up to work one day. Anyway, our sub was this really good-looking guy whom all my friends had a crush on. I didn't, though, because I was just too level-headed (coughstubborncough). Well, since our teacher hadn't taught us anything all year, I of course had to ask the sub how to do the grammar work. When I asked, the sub looks me straight (/deeply) in the eyes and provides the example sentence of "Megan is very beautiful." PS, if you didn't pick up on that, my name's Megan. Then he proceeds to explain the grammar. When he finished, he said, "Do you understand?" and I said, "Uh huh," but actually hadn't heard a thing he said after that example sentence. 


	8. The Angel of Music

TINK8812: No, it's not purposefully funny. Well, bits of it here and there, but, overall, it's meant to be drama. I never really take anything too seriously, so it might have come out sounding a little comedic. Particularly in chapter seven. I love making Winifred uncomfortable. I don't mind if you find the whole thing funny, though. As long as it's entertaining! ...And as long as I know I've got at least one consistent reader.

CHAPTER RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: "Kyrie" is by Franz Schubert. I'm not sure who wrote the lyrics that I stole from the play. Either Charles Hart or Tim Rice, and of course music by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* * *

When she reached the stables, she came upon a single black horse in a pin. She put a saddle and bridles on it, climbed on, and road it onto the street. Winifred felt rather self-conscious riding a horse sidesaddle through the middle of the city street, but it was better than getting a cab every day. When she returned the next day with the horse, there was a boy waiting in the stables.

"Thank God!" he cried, reaching towards her. "I thought she'd gotten out."

"I'm sorry. I was told I could borrow it," Winifred said, sliding off. Had she gotten the wrong horse?

"By who?" the boy asked with a curious expression on his face as he began loosening the saddle.

Winifred almost replied, "The Phantom," but caught herself and said, "The owner. Who do you work for?"

"Oh, I work at the inn a block away," he answered. "One day I got this letter with some money in it saying that I'd get paid for looking after the horse here. It was signed O.G., but, besides that, I don't know anything else."

Winifred explained to the boy her arrangement with the horse, and then made her way to the secret passageway behind the mirror. When she got there, she was pleased to find that all the candles and torches were now lit and she no longer feared falling to her death while descending the stairs. Then, when she reached the lake, an even more pleasant surprise awaited her: Erik was waiting there for her, pole in hand. He was no longer wearing the ripped shirt of before, but now looked neat and dignified in a black jacket, cloak and gloves.

When she approached him, he held out his hand to her and said, "A lady should not be forced to drive a gondola."

"Thank you," Winifred said gratefully. Smiling, she took his and stepped into the boat.

Winifred felt odd looking through this new point of view in the boat. Now that she was sitting and not struggling with the pole, the ride was actually relaxing. She was suddenly noticing how beautiful the water looked with the candlelight reflecting off of the black surface. She looked up at Erik, who was not looking at her, but had his face turned to the waters ahead. When they reached the shore, he helped her out of the boat, escorted her to the organ, and seated her on the bench.

"Would you like to start with 'Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs'?" he asked as he removed his cloak and sat down beside her.

"No," Winifred replied, a little too quickly. "Um, how about 'Kyrie'?" It was the only Latin song with lyrics she was able to learn right away because it repeated the same two phrases over and over again. They meant "Lord, have mercy on us" and "Christ, have mercy on us."

Winifred got out the music, Erik played the first note, and she sang softly and fluidly:

"Kyrie eleison.  
Kyrie eleison.  
Kyrie eleison."

Then she sang louder and more powerfully:

"Christe eleison!  
Christe eleison!  
Christe eleison!"

"Wait," Erik interrupted her. "That is good, but you need to enunciate more. 'Christe' should be verybiting and with a hard k sound. _Chris_te. And try to roll your r's. The k in 'Kyrie' should be harder as well, but still have a soft feeling." Then he began to sing gently.

"Kyrie eleison.  
Kyrie eleison."

His voice was absolutely sublime.

"Kyrie eleison.  
Kyrie eleison."

Winifred felt the music moving through her body and she couldn't help but close her eyes.

"Kyrie eleison."

She felt a hand on hers and he began to caress her fingers.

"Kyrie eleison, eleison."

His hot breath was brushing against her neck. She wanted him to get closer.

"I am your angel of music.  
Come to me: angel of music."

At this sudden change of words, Winifred's head fell back without her command, exposing her throat.

"I am your angel of music."

She was absolutely intoxicated with emotion.

"Come to me: angel of music."

His lips were brushing against her neck, his breath growing deeper. Winifred lifted a hand, touched his neck, and whispered his name: "Erik."

He stopped and pulled away. Winifred opened her eyes in a daze.

"Leave me," is all that he said. He did not look at her.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Leave me. Now. You may return tomorrow, but you must leave me now." With that, he rushed into another room, the curtains that served as the door sweeping down behind him.

Baffled, Winifred left the Phantom's domain. Had she done something wrong? She couldn't understand it. And why had he chosen that exact moment to become upset? Was there something wrong with her? His touch felt so _good_...

Winifred found herself walking down the street to the Parnell Operahouse. She wasn't sure why she had gone that way, but then realized she needed to see Madame Giry. Yes, Madame Giry would help. She seemed to know how the Phantom's mind worked.

When Winifred reached the operahouse, she was instructed to go to the dorms, where she found Madame Giry in a room helping the blonde ballerina from before into a stage costume.

"Miss Deschanel," Madame Giry greeted Winifred courteously as she entered the room. But Winifred's emotions must have been showing on her face because Madame Giry's expression became serious and she told the ballerina as she buttoned her last button, "Go to practice, Meg. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Yes, Mother," the girl replied and left, closing the door behind her.

"What is the matter, darling?" Madame Giry asked, sitting on the bed.

When Winifred tried to respond, she did something that she was not at all expecting: She burst into tears.

"Winifred!" Madame Giry said, shocked. "Come, sit. What happened?"

Her hands covering her face, Winifred sat down on the bed beside Madame Giry.

"Tell me, girl. What happened?"

"I- I don't know!" Winifred managed to gasp out through sobs. "He's mad at me. We were fine, but then he told me to leave." Oh, this sounded so dumb now.

"Shhh," Madame Giry said, taking Winifred in her arms and stroking her hair. "You should not be so upset. He is onlyyour teacher. Unless..." Then she released Winifred and looked her in the eyes. "Unless you are beginning to have feelings for him. Do you?"

"What do you mean?" Winifred asked in a weak voice, but she knew exactly what she meant.

"Do you love him?" Madame Giry asked gently, almost a whisper.

_Do I love him?_ "No," she said defiantly, then, "Yes. I don't know..." Winifred was so confused.

"Listen to me," Madame Giry said hastily, as if she thought someone might be spying on them. "You may be under his spell."

"His what?"

"His spell. Christine Daae was under it as well. The Phantom is able to hypnotize with his voice- to seduce. I thought you would be safe from him, but apparently I was wrong."

Winifred started to panic. This was very bad, though she wasn't even sure if she believed it. "What do I do?"

"There is one way to break the spell. You must remove his mask. He will not be happy with you for doing this, so guard yourself." She stood. "I must go now, Miss Deschanel." Winifred rose and Madame Giry kissed her cheek. "Good luck."


	9. When Pandora Waits On Hope

CHAPTER RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: "Nessun Dorma" is from Puccini's _Turandot._ Again, I'm not sure who wrote the lyrics for "The Point of No Return," but it's probably either Charles Hart or Tim Rice. And, of course, music by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* * *

The next day, Winifred was pleased to find that the Phantom was waiting for her by the lake as before, but she became nervous when she remembered what she must do, and even more nervous when she realised how nice he looked. Today he did not wear a jacket or gloves, but only the cloak over his white shirt whose ruffled neckline began below his pectoral muscles. Not a word was said between them as he helped her into the boat and pushed them across the lake. It wasn't until they reached shore that Winifred spoke.

"Shall we start with 'Sanctos Spiritus'?" she asked.

"No," Erik replied. "Today I have something different in mind." He took her to the organ and sat down, she standing beside him. He handed her a leather-bound musical score entitled _Don Juan Triumphant_. "Start at page seven where the soprano comes in."

Winifred opened the music and sang.

"You have brought me  
To that moment where words run dry  
To that moment where speech disappears  
Into silence,  
Silence . . .

I have come here  
Hardly knowing the reason why.  
In my mind, I've already imagined  
Our b-"

Winifred stopped, looked at Erik nervously, and continued.

"Our bodies entwining defenseless and silent  
And now I am here with you:  
No second thoughts,  
I've decided,  
Decided . . . "

She lowered her music and cleared her throat. Erik took her hand, causing her to wince, bracing herself for the needle.

"Don't worry," he told her. "I was only going to ask you why you stopped. You were doing so well."

Winifred looked down at their joined hands. She could tell by the texture of his skin that he worked with his hands, but they weren't unpleasantly rough. They were strong. His fingers were calloused like those of an artist. He stroked her hand with his thumb.

"Winifred?" he said.

"Can we work on something else?" she asked, coming out of her daze.

"Alright," he replied, letting go of her hand. "Have I shown 'Nessun Dorma' to you yet?"

"No."

He handed her a sheet of music. "It is in Italian, so I'll have to pronounce the words for you." Then he began to sing a lovely, flowing tune.

"Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!  
Tu pure, o Principessa  
nella tua fredda stanza  
guardi le stelle  
che tremano d'amore  
e di speranza.

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,  
il nome mio nessun saprà!  
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò  
quando la luce splenderà!"

But Winifred was not listening. Well, she was. Who could help but listen to that angelic voice? She wasn't listening to the words. She didn't care about how they were pronounced. All she cared about was the music.

"Ed il mio bacio scioglerà il silencio  
che ti fa mia!

Dilegua, o notte!  
Tramontate, stelle!  
All'alba vincerò!  
Vincerò! Vincerò!"

He stopped, and Winifred's thoughts dropped back into reality. She remembered: "The Phantom is able to hypnotize with his voice- to seduce." He was looking up at her, waiting for her to sing. His eyes were dark, one eye partially hidden by the white mask. This was it. She had to do it, or be lost. She reached out and removed the mask.

Winifred got a glimpse of unnaturally pink skin before Erik stood and turned away, covering his face. "Succubus! Damn you, fiend!" he yelled, and let out an animal roar.

Winifred almost shot back at him with, "_You_ call _me_ a succubus?" but was distracted when he flung a table into the water with another frustrated yell.

"You are all alike!" he cried out angrily, then he collapsed to the ground, and said in the most pitiful voice Winifred had ever heard come from a man, "Nothing will ever change."

As Erik moved to lean his back against the wall, Winifred went to him and kneeled in front of him, touching the hand that hid his face. "Why do you cover yourself?" she asked him quietly.

He turned the covered side of his face away and said, "Do not touch me," in a tired, biting tone.

But Winifred only moved closer, placing her hand on his neck. "Please," she pleaded with him. "Let me see."

He did not move at first, but after a moment, and with what seemed like great difficulty, he lowered his hand and turned to face her.

The sight made her gasp and draw her hand back. Half of his face was misshapened, as if it had been melted. His bottom eyelid drooped like it was being pulled downwards and his flesh was red as if he'd been burned in a fire. Erik turned away in shame, and Winifred, before she could stop herself, cupped his deformed cheek in her hand and made him face her once more. She moved in closer to get a better look, and their faces were now mere inches apart. She trailed her fingers down his face, feeling his skin. This was probably the rudest, most intrusive thing she had ever done, but she simply could not help herself. She had to explore him. She _needed_ to. Her finger grazed his hairline and she saw that it moved unnaturally, so she pushed it back. His nearly-black hair tumbled off his head to reveal thin, stringy, dusty brown hair. Also, Winifred could now see that nearly half of his head was bald, showing more deformity.

All through Winifred's staring, Erik looked back at her with eyes full of hopelessness and despair. She knew she should be frightened, but she realized that she couldn't. He was sitting before her, naked, vulnerable, and she only wanted to touch him more. Suddenly, Winifred found herself leaning forward, placing a lingering kiss on Erik's distorted cheek. He sighed- almost a gasp- and she kissed his closed, deformed eye, trying, somehow, to pour herself into him. She then crawled into his lap, laid her head on his shoulder, and they held each other in a desperate embrace.

"No one has ever..." he whispered, but did not finish. Then Winifred felt him shaking. He was crying.

_What has the world done to you?_ she thought, and held him tighter.


	10. Mirror, Mirror

CHAPTER RATING: PG13

* * *

When Winifred returned home, she left the copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_ that Erik had given her to practice with lying on her bed and went to the bathroom to draw herself a hot bath. Once she was undressed, she stood in front of the mirror and stared at her naked body. She'd always thought she was good-looking and even pretty, but now she saw her body differently. Was it good enough for someone else to see? She looked at how her long, blonde hair looked as it fell over her pale shoulders. Her mother used to call her Snow White after the fairy tale, but Winifred always thought that it would be rather frightening to see someone with skin as white as snow. She knew that golden blonde hair was something much admired, but hers was more of a white blonde. She suddenly noticed that her whiteness gave her features a lack of any depth whatsoever- she looked washed-out. She studied at her breasts and stomach. She hadn't had the opportunity to see many other women's bodies, aside from those in paintings. She placed her hands on the little bulge of her stomach. The women in artwork usually had bigger stomachs and thighs than she did, but the Phantom had been in the operahouse for years, around ballerinas who starved themselves so that they could be tossed higher. Skinny little girls like Christine Daae.

Christine.

She was the standard. She was the woman who drove him to insanity. Winifred suddenly felt ashamed of her body, embarrassed that she'd let him hold her so closely. She'd practically pushed herself on him! Maybe he hadn't even wanted to touch her.

Winifred suddenly felt sick at the sight of herself and climbed into the tub.

When she was bathed and dressed in her nightgown, she returned to her room. There, she found her father, sitting on her bed, reading _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"Where did you get this?" he asked her, voice even but stern.

"What?" Winifred replied, panic-stricken.

"This pornography," he said, suppressing an angry tone. He stood, reading from the book. "'What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us?' Where did you get this, Winifred? From Johnathan?"

"I...uh...no..." She was at a complete loss for words.

"Because I don't see how else you could have gotten it. The only place I allow you to go without a chaperone is to the Bellos' home." He was approaching her now, voice rising.

He grabbed her arm violently and shouted, "WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?"

"I- I don't know!" Winifred's eyes were beginning to sting.

Her father let go of her arm and slapped her across the face. Winifred reeled and fell to the floor. "You will not leave this room until I say," he commanded, and left the room, slamming the door.

Winifred sat in the floor for nearly ten minutes, shocked, trying to contemplate what had just happened. She'd never disobeyed her father before. Or, when she did, either they were very minor offenses or she made sure that her father never found out about them. This was the first time since she was a little girl that she'd been caught. She never remembered him getting this angry before. Why?

And how long would he keep her there?


	11. Idle Hands

CHAPTER RATING: PG13

* * *

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks of just sitting in her room. Her father didn't let her out for anything- not even Mass. Only about three times a day would he escort her to relieve herself. What would he do when she began having womanly troubles again? He brought her meals to her every day. It was as if he didn't trust her to be in the company of their servants. Or maybe it was because he hadn't told them he was keeping his daughter hostage in her room.

After the first week or so, Winifred had stopped getting dressed in the morning. All day she would simply sit on her bed with nothing to do but read her Bible that normally lay open on her bedside table. Some of the time she would lie on her back for hours, pretending to draw shapes on the ceiling with her eyes. Most of the time, however, she would think about the Phantom. What was he doing in his dark cave beneath the operahouse? Was he composing? Sculpting? Building? What did he think had happened to her?

Winifred liked to imagine that he figured it all out. "Ah, I know," he would say to himself. "Her tyrannical father has trapped her in her room, keeping her from me, torturing her with solitude." Then he would mount his valiant black horse, gallop to her front door, black cape swirling, and break it down with his bare hands. He would race up the stairs and, with her father shouting in anger, Erik would scoop Winifred into his arms and carry her away. Then they would both mount the horse and ride off into the sunset, down once more into the darkness of the Phantom's domain.

But he never came. No matter how many times Winifred planned out the whole scenario, Erik was never there for her, looking down at her through that white mask that hid his shame. She thought about his hands. Oh, those beautiful hands. She never realized how attractive a man's hands could be- or how attractive a man's anything could be, for that matter. Sure, she'd been attracted to some of the few men she'd had contact with before, but never with such intensity. Never so that she could feel his hands on her whenever she thought of him, feel his breath on her face, taste him in her mouth.

Sometimes she would remember what she'd been told by Miss Daae and La Carlotta: _He's dangerous. He's killed._ Before, Winifred barely gave these warnings a second thought. She fully believed that, if her life were ever in danger, she would be able to protect herself or escape. It wasn't until she believed that she was safe from him that she began to worry- that was when her fantasies took a turn for the worst. He would reach her room, take her in his arms and, together, they would descend the staircase. But when they reached the bottom, there would be no angry shouts from Winifred's father. Instead, she would see him sitting at his desk in his study, Bible in hand, and a bloody knife through his chest, staring back at her through empty eyes.

However, Winifred did not like these thoughts, so she pushed them from her mind.


	12. And of course, Down Once More

CHAPTER RATING: PG

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just so you know, she hasn't gone crazy, she's just...been by herself for a while.

* * *

Winifred pushed at her cold carrots with her fork. She'd learned to stretch a meal out for nearly two hours in order to kill time. The trouble was that, when one eats slowly, one can be full with very little food in her stomach. She stabbed a carrot and held it close to her face, examining it. It looked like it had a little mouth and little eyes. What would that mouth say? What would it say? What would it say? 

"Run, darling, run."

"Alright," Winifred replied to the carrot, and popped it in her mouth. She giggled at herself, then sighed. "Alright," she repeated, and stood and got dressed in a light dress. What else? What else? Bible. Shoes. Clothes? Later.

She walked to her window and opened it, looking out into the dark of night. She was really going to do it. She was running away.

She was on the second story and there was no way to climb down. She climbed onto the windowsill, back facing outside, gripped the sides of the opening, and slowly walked down the side of her house. When she was low enough, she carefully slid her hands down to the bottom of the windowsill and then dropped her feet so that she was hanging by her hands, body pressed against the wall. Then reality hit her and she began to panic. It wasn't until then that she remembered a trick with tying knots in bed sheets to make a rope. She wished she'd thought of that before. So she hung there until her hands and arms couldn't take it anymore and let go. She hit the ground feet first. Mild pain shot up her shins, but a great pain hit her between the stomach and the hips. She keeled over and lay on the ground for several minutes. _Just a moment. I'll get up in just a moment. _When she did, she walked a few feet, but stopped when her vision was drowned by a purple light inside her head. The light faded and she continued on to Johnathan's house. Once there, she did not knock, but she went straight to the stables and retrieved the Phantom's black horse. She mounted it and started for the operahouse in a full gallop. She was reminded of her fantasies, only now she did not have Erik at her side.

When she reached the lake in the operahouse, she saw that the boat was gone. She didn't know what to do. "Hello?" she called. "Erik?" She felt as she did the first time she came looking for the Phantom. When no one answered her, she went to the water's edge and stared down into the murky depths. What lay beneath the surface? Was there anything living? Winifred cringed when she thought of stepping on a fish or crab or something squishy. She decided to leave her shoes on, and stepped into the chilly water. The water nearly reached her waist, and her dress poofed up around her. Leaving her Bible on the stone shore, Winifred walked slowly through the water. Over and over again, she had visions of some underwater monster or demon grabbing her legs. At one point, something brushed across her calf and she screamed, but then she realized that is was only a plant.

When she finally got to the passageway to the Phantom's domain, she saw that the gate was down. "Erik?" she called, grabbing onto the gate. "Are you there? Let me in."

No answer.

"Erik! Let me in! Please! Hello?"

"Why should I do as you say?" came his voice from a distant room. It sounded cold.

"What?" Winifred replied, confused. "I thought- I didn't mean to-" She took a breath, trying to calm herself, but burst into uncontrollable tears. "Erik, please let me in!" she sobbed. "For the past three weeks, I've been locked inside my room by my father. I've been kept from you all this time, and I finally escaped. Now this gate is keeping me from you. Do not force me to break it down." She laughed hysterically through her tears.

What if she had been right the night she'd come home before her father locked her away? What if Erik hated her?

Then the gate began to rise. It was all Winifred could do not to dive beneath the water and swim under, but she controlled herself long enough for the opening to reach the surface. As she made her way as quickly as she could through the water, Erik appeared, dressed, masked, and wigged, and met her at the shore. He took her in his arms and held her tight as she cried into his chest.

He couldn't hate her. She could feelit in his touch.

Winifred looked up, and through her tear-filled eyes she saw Erik's face. It was full of concern...worry...desire.

He said, "I assumed you'd-"

"I'd never," Winifred whispered, cutting him short.

He kissed her forehead, and they held each other for a moment more, until Winifred announced that she was cold.

"Of course," Erik replied in a raspy voice. "There are some things in the black trunk in the bedroom that you can change into if you like." He led her to a side room and said, "Call me when you're finished."

"Alright."

Winifred found a lacy nightgown to change into, though when Erik entered the room, she suddenly felt rather exposed. She'd never been dressed for bed in front of a man before. Erik turned down the bed- an amazing golden bed shaped like a bird- for her. As she climbed in, he turned down the lamps and made to leave the room.

"Wait," Winifred heard herself say.

"Yes?" Erik replied, turning.

"Can...can you stay? I don't want to be alone." She was afraid of her own words.

Erik watched her for a moment, his silhouette unmoving in the doorway, and then said, "Alright." He came and sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes, shirt and disguise. He then slid under the sheets next to Winifred and pulled a cord, lowering a black lace draping around the bed. Lying down, he took Winifred in his arms, her back against his front, and held her. Suddenly, and for the first time in a long while, Winifred felt safe.

"Erik?" she whispered, afraid to speak in a normal tone in the darkness.

"Yes?" came his soft reply.

"Is it...too early...to...love you?"

"What?" He sounded rather shocked.

"Is it too soon? I mean, it's never been explained to me."

She heard Erik take a shuddering breath, which sent fire rushing through her veins. He gently squeezed her wrist and said, "No, it's not too early. It can't be."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's it! I've got a sequel in my head that might have slightly better writing since I'm out of school and actually have the time. It's just a short little in the Phantom's POV. I just wanna know if it's worth writing. Do you guys feel like you could read a chapter or two more of my pathetic Mary-Sue? 

AUTHOR'S RANDOM STORY: That bit where she jumps from her window is taken from something that really happened to me. I was helping to clean out my friend's drained pool. I was wearing my glasses at the time, so my depth perception was screwed up and I thought it would be okay to sit on the side and slid into the deep end and land on my feet. It wasn't okay. So Winifred's little experience is a recount of that, except I wasn't able to walk it off like she was and couldn't drive home that night, but I think I fell farther than she did.


End file.
